


cracked and broken

by starblessed



Category: I Medici | Medici: Masters of Florence (TV)
Genre: Family Drama, Francesco Does His Best, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 20:19:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17874188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: “You’ve got the wrong man,” Francesco grit out past the blade pressing precariously into his jugular.The assailant grinned through broken, crooked teeth. “Not likely, Messer Pazzi.”“No,” Francesco said, and rammed his knee into his attacker’s gut. “You’vereallygot the wrong man.”....Francesco makes a mistake, pays the price, and must seek sanctuary with his newfound family while he still can.





	cracked and broken

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly didn't mean to make this as dramatic as it got, nor as sugar-sweet at the end, but... some of the conversations on Tumblr about the Medicis basically adopting Francesco inspired me ok, I didn't ask for this life
> 
> Written as a Tumblr prompt, for [Aki_of_Eyluvial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aki_of_Eyluvial/pseuds/Aki_of_Eyluvial)! My tumblr is [roseluminated](http://roseluminated.tumblr.com/), and I'm currently accepting Medici prompts!

His fatal error, as it turned out, was not in uncovering the loan discrepancies in the Pazzi bank’s _libro segreto,_ but in going to his uncle about it.

Francesco might have known better than to expect straightforward business practices from Jacopo. After all, he too stood at the helm of the family business. Banking was often underhanded work. One had to reap more than they sow to make a profit; he’d been involved in shady dealings often enough to understand that. However, under Francesco’s influence, the Pazzi bank was recently steering straight. Without their long-standing rivalry with the Medici, they could now focus on advancing their own reputation; as a result, business had never been better. He assumed, with the naive confidence children held in a favored parent, that his uncle was holding to those ideals as strongly as Francesco himself.

Clearly, he assumed incorrectly.

The bank’s accounts revealed dozens of loans recalled early, under the table. Were the bank in dire straits, recalling the loans would have a purpose; but they were flourishing, with no need for extra money at all. In fact, that same quantities of money were being issued right back out... to known Medici enemies.

His uncle was up to his old tricks, and Francesco decided to put a stop to it.

His mistake was assuming he could initiate a confrontation with his uncle without it quickly taking an ugly turn; without the seasoned politician categorically denying everything, with a benign smile on his face, and a glint in his eye sharp as a knife’s blade. The moment Francesco pressed, Jacopo grew serious. His mouth narrowed, and his dark eyes took on a hint of warning Francesco remembered too well from his own childhood.

“If you continue interfering in matters that do not concern you, you’ll wish you hadn’t,” he said bluntly. He did not utter the words, but Francesco heard their echo in his uncle’s blunt rebuke: have you forgotten who asks the questions around here?

Francesco straightened himself up, staring down at his uncle from narrowed eyes. “I am sure Lorenzo de Medici will have many questions regarding the recent discrepancies in our accounts,” he replied — and, much as he hated how Lorenzo had become his shield against Jacopo’s cunning words, Lorenzo was also a powerful card to play.

Something dangerous flickered in Jacopo’s eyes; it left Francesco feeling uneasy in spite of himself. For a moment, he was seized by the irrational, childish fear that his uncle would lash out at him — never mind that he hadn’t done so for years, not since he was small.

Jacopo did not strike out. He did not even rise from his desk. Instead, he merely shook his head, and returned to his accounts.

“What you do now is your choice,” he replied. “I only hope you do not make a decision you will regret.”

Francesco’s lips curled back in scorn, but his uncle did not care to acknowledge it. The door slammed behind him as he stalked out of the office.

This was what filled his head, on the walk through the streets towards the Medici palazzo: his own foolishness, to expect anything better of the patriarch of their family bank. The man had raised him with all the principles he still adhered to now, even if Francesco was steadily shedding them. Jacopo would not change. He would always be a chess player, moving the pieces in whatever direction suited him best — ostensibly for the sake of the Pazzi family, but at heart, for himself. He had no mercy for others, even his own nephews. Francesco knew his uncle too well. He would never change.

He knew his uncle... but he did _not_ know the stranger who cornered him in an alley on the way back from the bank, slammed him against the wall, and held a knife to his throat.

“You’ve got the wrong man,” Francesco grit out past the blade pressing precariously into his jugular.

The assailant grinned through broken, crooked teeth. “Not likely, Messer Pazzi.”

“No,” Francesco said, and rammed his knee into his attacker’s gut. “You’ve _really_ got the wrong man.”

That was as far as it would have gone, too — with the anonymous thug doubled over on the ground, and Francesco standing over him, managing himself quite well — had three more men not slipped out of a side alley, blocking off the only escape.

A sudden flash of memory, cornering Giuliano de Medici, struck the shadowed alley like lightning. Phantoms of that encounter flickered in front of his eyes before vanishing into smoke. Suddenly, he was on the opposite end, target instead of aggressor. Francesco tensed up, reading the language of the fight before it could be translated into action. Four against one, away from all witnesses. This would not end well for him.

 _Damn it all,_ Francesco decided, and kicked the man on the ground hard before slamming his fist into the nearest brute’s jaw.

That was all he remembered, really.

There was pain. Of course there was pain — coupled with the overwhelming sensation of being outnumbered, countless fists and steel-toed boots knocking the breath from his lungs and the blood from his mouth. There was the sharp shock of his head being slammed against the wall —- once, twice, again, leaving stars clouding his vision and iron filling his mouth. He opened his eyes just in time to see a boot rearing back, a second before slamming into his head.

Then. Darkness. Whatever followed after that, Francesco did not know.

He felt it though, in the agonizing moments it took him to fade to full consciousness. He could not say how long it had been since the attack — only that the sky had been golden with dusk when he left the bank, and was now an inky black. Blood was still fresh upon his lips; he coughed it out in an abortive effort to sit up, splattering the pavement crimson. A steady fire burned in his chest, flaring up with any small movement. His stomach ached from the force of a dozen blows. And his head... dear god, his head. _Oh, his head._

Even opening his eyes was enough to get the world spinning around him. Moving seemed an impossible task. For an agonizing eternity, he could not even think about hauling himself up from the pavement. It was all he could do to roll onto his back, whimpering from the pain that blurred the edges of dream and reality, threatening to send him back down into the dark abyss of sleep. He almost wished he could give in; unconsciousness was a mercy, compared to the fresh hell of a beating. But to stay down would be surrender — and perhaps it was Jacopo’s teachings, ingrained so deeply into him that they could not be numbed even now, but a Pazzi never surrendered. He fought until the last breath left his body... and that was what Francesco had to do. It was not a choice — it was simply fact.

He had to get up.

The agony of hauling himself to his feet was worse than expected. He could not have braced himself, because the pain was unlike anything experienced before, anything he knew even existed. Immediately, the fire intensified to an inferno; broken ribs shifted in his chest with the force of movement. His instinctual effort to hold them in place only hurt more, and as his vision cleared, the ground suddenly tilted beneath his feet. The world reeled. Nothing stood the way it ought to; gravity rebelled against him. He doubled over, bracing himself against he wall as his stomach emptied itself out.

By the time he straightened up, his broken body had almost adapted to itself. Or, at the very least, he was doing himself a mercy by forgetting to feel it. The pain had by no means numbed, but ceased to be overwhelming. Now that he was on his feet, he could move. He could go.

_... go where?_

The realization hit him with an alarming jolt, like a knife being plunged into his ribs. He had no idea where he ought to go. He could not remember where he had been going, before his attackers caught up with him. He could not remember where he’d been.

Where was he now, for that matter?

Once again, his head was reeling; this time, it nearly did overwhelm him. Francesco slumped back against the wall, combing his sluggish brain for answers. The bank. He’d been at the bank, hadn’t he? He was at the bank every day... so yes, he must have been. At the bank, and something had happened.... something, something, and he’d gone. He’d left... to head home? Was he headed to Novella?

No. Looking around, he was able to center himself — an alleyway not far from the Palazzo della Signoria, past his own home. He hadn’t been heading home at all... so where? Where was he going, and what message had seemed so urgent at the time — that he couldn’t recall it now?

A sudden spike of pain reverberated through his core, and as Francesco doubled over, he realized. If he was heading to this part of the city, he could only be on his way to the Medici palazzo. He was going to see Lorenzo.

 _For what?_ Damn it, there was the key — there was the memory on which everything else rested. If he could just _recall..._ but the effort left him feeling woozy, and as a hand drifted to his head, he felt something damp. Urgency spiked like a bolt of lightning through his gaze. It could not be more obvious that his condition was grim. He had to reach his destination before he ended up passing out again, right there in the alley. The rest could wait; for now, he needed sanctuary. He would find it with the Medici.

Of the journey itself, Francesco recalled little. His mind had transformed into a sieve. Memory slipped through it like sand, retaining little, but tremoring at any moment as if it might break. Muscle memory alone guided him to the palazzo gates, but he could not recall being let in, nor quite how he came to be standing in the Medici’s foyer. He was not certain of anything, really… until a shout rang through the hall and Lorenzo came sprinting out of his office.

“They said — did you really —“

His gaze caught on Francesco, and he stopped all at once. Wide-eyed silence told Francesco all he needed to know. He looked like a dead man returned.

“Good god,” Lorenzo said, taking a step closer. Francesco tried to shake his head, faltered, and slumped forward.

He was quickly caught up in Lorenzo’s arms, which was as much a mercy as humiliation — but he stood no chance of holding himself up any longer. Another shout brought more voices into the echoing hall. His head did not appreciate them. Francesco squeezed his eyes shut, wishing for it all to fade, even as he felt a new pair of hands pawing at his face, brushing hair back from his sticky temples.

“Is he alright?” a women’s sharp voice exclaimed. “Holy Father, what’s happened to him?”

“He was attacked,” Lorenzo’s distant voice proclaimed. “He must have been.”

“Call a physician,” directed another female voice, sharper and more authoritative than the first. “This was certainly deliberate. The only question is, who —“

“I know _exactly_ who.” And finally, a familiar voice — one he welcomed, not as an intrusion, but a comfort. This was the same voice who soothed him in the aftermath of childhood beatings, who stroked his head and promised it would all be alright. When a gentle touch brushed over his jaw, he was able to force his eyes open.

Guglielmo broke into a smile at the sight of him, though it was strained, cracking at the edges. A lifetime alongside each other left Francesco too wise to Guglielmo’s tells. His brother was not glad to see him; he was terrified.

“Always have to do the unexpected, don’t you?” Guglielmo asked, shaking his head. Francesco huffed, and tried to speak. He managed a groan instead.

“Don’t try to talk,” Lorenzo urged, voice low, echoing around Francesco’s ears. He brushed the words aside. It was vital that they knew — that they understood what happened —

“I was cornered. An alley, off Via della Scalla. Not sure who, but it was… I think it was…”

“Jacopo,” Guglielmo said, practically snarling the word. Francesco closed his eyes. He could confirm nothing, only speculate; but through the haze of his memories, the dangerous gleam in his uncle’s eye still shone clear. Francesco made a mistake, and his uncle ensured he would not make it again.

 _What mistake,_ though? Dammit, if only he could remember. _If only..._

Above him, his brother’s voice echoed, but Francesco could not make out a word. He felt himself being lifted, hauled to his feet, and stumbled along to the best of his ability… but somewhere along the way, he fell back and faded, plunging into blackness which knew no end.

When he opened his eyes again, it was morning.

Faint sunlight wavered through the drawn curtains, translucent glimpses of a fresh dawn. It was not yet bright enough to cause his pounding head strain. Instead, the low light provided welcome permission for him to explore his surroundings without being noticed, and take stock of himself in turn.

He was lying in a broad bed with silk sheets, a downy pillow under his head. The room he recognized from the elaborate frescoes on the walls — a guest bed, for the Medicis’ most important visitors. He no longer wore a shirt, and a stark white bandage wrapped around his chest. When he tried to move his head (a mistake) he realized his skull was bound a similar way.

He sighed into the quiet morning, relishing a blissful lack of ache in his lungs. Only when he shifted just a bit, to take in more of the room, did his heart leap in his bruised chest. He’d assumed he was alone, but he was wrong.

In a chair at the side of his bed, Lorenzo was slumped over. His head, pillowed against his shoulder, was fixed at a crooked angle; he would not be able to move his neck without agony when he woke. Still, he had clearly sat by Francesco’s side for hours… all night, if his awkward position spok to anything.

When Francesco’s eyes wandered, he caught sight of long hair, spread out at the foot of the bed. His sister in law dozed on folded arms, breathing deeply. Within arms reach of her, leaning forward in his chair, Guglielmo almost looked awake… until Francesco realized the hand holding his was slack, and his brother’s upright posture masked his closed eyes.

They waited by his bedside… all night long?

He sighed again, an endeavor which failed in stirring any of his attentive nurses… but movement from the doorway drew his attention. Looking up, he was surprised not to see a servant, but the lady of the house herself. Madonna Lucrezia stepped out from the shadows, peering down at him, before a pleased smile seized hold of her lips.

“You’re awake. Excellent,” she said softly. “And how are you feeling?”

His attempt to speak was hesitant — both out of reluctance to wake anyone, and uncertainty if his throat could handle it. “I’ve been better,” he finally answered, in a hoarse croak.

Lucrezia sighed, in much the exasperated manner she must use when dealing with her own sons. In a second, she was holding a glass of water to his lips. Francesco drank gratefully before slumping back against the pillows again, aching and spent.

“The physician gave you something for the pain, but mostly left you alone. Your ribs are broken, and as for your head… a commotion of the brain, nothing more. You will recover with time.”

Relief engulfed him like a wave, nearly sweeping him away. When he looked up at Madonna Lucrezia, genuine gratitude shone in his eyes, chasing away any hints of wariness. He could not understand why the Medici opened their doors to him so readily, why they summoned their physicians for him, sacrificed a room, monitored him through the night… but he is grateful. He is terribly grateful, and too exhausted to ponder if this is a debt owed.

“You may rest for a while longer,” Lucrezia urged. “I do not think you’ll be left alone.”

This surprised him most of all — that they genuinely seemed to care.

“My brother —“

“Had to be stopped from leading an army to Jacopo Pazzi’s house last night. Only his concern for you kept him rooted, I think.” Her eyes grazed over her sleeping son-in-law’s face, then moved onto her daughter. “And Bianca. Lorenzo may have even joined him, but you were the priority.”

 _Priorities._ He had a message… something important to say… but he still could not remember.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “My head still aches. I do not know what I meant to… meant to say last night.”

“You said all you need to,” Lucrezia replied, voice warm. When Francesco looked up at her, surprise in his eyes, she merely shook her head. “If you remember in due time, you shall. For now… rest.” Her lips pressed into another smile. “You’ll be in good company.”

He needed no more urging. All the reassurance he could have wanted cane from the steady presences at his side — and the tentative new confidence that, no matter how many battles he fought alone in shadowed alleyways, he would not be left to lick his own wounds.

 _Family._ Now, that was a curious prospect. Almost laughable, really. He had no clue what to make of it.

But as Francesco settled back down into dreamless sleep, he found the idea of family the warmest reassurance he could hope for.


End file.
